


Let's Keep Evisceration as a Last Resort

by morosophe



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M, No actual Rape/Non-con, Preseries, Rule 63, Trigger Warning: Animal Abuse, Trigger Warning: Bodily Autonomy Violations, Trigger Warning: Drugging, Trigger Warning: Perceived Possible Rape/Non-Con, Trigger Warning: Tasing, Trigger Warning: Threats of Rape/Non-Con, girl!Foggy Nelson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morosophe/pseuds/morosophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's not sure quite what's going on.  Soon enough, nobody else is, either.</p><p>An alternate meeting with an alternate Foggy Nelson.  Features always-a-girl! Foggy, captivity, and an author who's bitten off more than she can chew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timura/gifts).



> Inspired by several prompts over at the kink meme, although it's only a fill for [the one that requested a Foggy that's always been a girl and is also in love with Matt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=5271240#cmt5271240), which was claimed by [timura](http://archiveofourown.org/users/timura/works). (I'm doing my best on the second part of that, anyhow.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never: been to New York City, been kidnapped, lost my sight, had a panic attack, lived in the Marvel Universe, or learned more than the bare basics when it comes to first aid. I also will not curse or blaspheme--even borrowing a vulgarity from the show makes me feel guilty.

Confusion.

Total darkness.

Then, a slow accumulation of the world around him. His own body, first, complete with some very nasty tastes in his mouth, and then... Moistness behind him, pushed against his back, legs askew, one hand resting on the other arm—he was laying, back against a wall. A damp wall, probably underground, but this realization was almost overtaken by the loud breathing sounds and the steady “tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump” he could hear. Heartbeat. Someone else was in the room with him, and as his nose began to sort out more than the scent of the absolutely filthy floor it was far too close to, he realized he was not only smelling the other person—her? Yes, her—where she was, but all over him. She'd touched his head, back, his hands, his side, his legs, pretty much everything, and some of that nastiness in his mouth was the taste of her fingers (alcohol, sweat, blood, dirt, paper, and traces of Cheetos, which were almost worse than the rest of them combined) having been on his tongue. For a moment, he felt violated, but then the sheer level of terror in the room, and the faint scent of her tears, struck him, and he realized: oh.

Recovery position.

Whoever she was, she'd put him in recovery position against the wall, even if she had been handsy doing so, and was now sitting a good three feet away from him. And by the way her breath was still hitching, alternating with long-drawn ins and outs, she was probably either fighting or coming out of a panic attack, so... She put him in recovery position and then had a panic attack? Probably. Whoever she was, it's not likely she was the enemy, then.

He still didn't know where he was, or what was going on. Her breath, occasionally catching on a sob, had made enough noise for him to map out the area: definitely underground, with maintenance pipes a good ten feet above him. He was still wearing some of his clothes, although his shirts had been untucked (checking for injuries or just groping?) and his trousers were oddly twisted (ditto), but there were some definite omissions—coat, scarf, cane, shoes, socks, glasses.

He lay there for a while, even meditating a little to try to recover faster, but whatever toxins his body was clearing out, his situation was not actually becoming any clearer to him. Maybe it was time he went a more direct route for information.

“Who are you and where are we?” he asked the mystery woman as he sat up.

Her heart jumped.

“Shhh!” she warned, and crawled over to him. “They might have devices to pick up sound, how would we know?” she whispered. “Just 'cause it's black as tar in here doesn't mean they don't! How would we know? There could be infrared cameras mounted eight feet above us, or the walls might all really be two-way mirrors, or something, I don't know! And I'm not letting those jerks get any more enjoyment out of my misery than I can help!” Despite her insistence on silence and stoicism, the mystery woman's voice grew louder and more shrill as she spoke, until she ended by slapping her hand over her mouth, and despite everything, despite the fact that she'd confirmed the situation was grim, that neither she nor he were there consensually and both were likely to have worse in store, the distinctive sound of the childish gesture made Matt grin.

“Well,” said Matt in a normal tone of voice, “any two-way mirrors would be pointless, because the idea behind a two-way mirror is that the viewing side is much darker than the side being watched. Hard to do when the observation room is 'black as tar.' I rather doubt that there are recording devices eight feet above us, either. We're in a basement, can't you tell? It doesn't smell like it's cleaned regularly, or even used. The ceilings are a little more than ten feet high, or thereabouts, and while installing recording devices up there is not impossible, that seems like such a long-shot to worry about compared to our chances of getting away if we can communicate with each other. I'm not letting them—whoever 'they' may be—prevent us from doing that.”

“Good point,” she said. “Um, I don't know who 'they' are, either, really. I've just been coming up with worse and worse options since I woke up here. I'm clearly in a horror movie, I'm a fat chick, I'm gonna be dead by the episode's end. I just don't want to do anything viewers can get vicarious thrills out of. Besides, I mean, the eventual evisceration, or whatever.”

“I really hope evisceration is not on the menu,” Matt muttered. “Can you tell me how you got here?” He doubted it'd be much different than how he did, and indeed, her story summed up to: went to celebrate the end of exams, had too much to drink, called a cab to get back, and then nothing. Matt remembered the all-over body clench of a taser, and could still feel the sting of an injection site, but he had been so filled with bonhomie and scotch back at the bar that he hadn't even registered aggression on the part of his attackers, whoever they were, before the hum of the taser.

“I woke up thinking, great job, Foggy,” said—Foggy, apparently. “I ignored everyone's advice and went alone to a bar, and sure enough, here I am date-raped. Only not. 'Cause I still have my clothes on, and nothing feels different?, so I thought, 'White slavery? I thought that was a myth,' but the giant bolted door seems to argue for it, well, that or a serial killer or something, and then you were here, and I didn't even know that you were here until I tripped over you looking for another way out. Sorry about that, dude. I was afraid you were dead for a little, but then I could feel you breathing, so I did ABC and everything, but I couldn't _see_ , I had to feel around, and I couldn't find any, like, wounds or bumps, or anything, but what if I missed something because it's so dark? There was nothing wrong with you, dude, but you weren't waking up, so what if...”

“Thank you,” said Matt, hoping to short-circuit the hysteria he could hear building in her voice. “I appreciate your concern. I think I was tased, and then drugged. I was leaving a bar, too, though, so my memory's a little fuzzy.”

“Oh, were you at Josie's, too, then?” asked Foggy. “For all I know, I saw you there. I was the chick with the Star Trek shirt.”

“You mean Josie's Bar? Up on 42nd? No, Josie's is a little far from campus for me, I'm afraid,” Matt said. “I don't usually make it back to the Kitchen anymore at all. I decided to stick pretty close to the dorms for my first foray at legal drinking. Easier to walk back when I'm done.”

“Wait, so are you a college student? Grad student?”

“College student, halfway through my senior year at NYU,” Matt responded promptly. “Public policy.”

“Oh, me, too!” exclaimed Foggy, clearly happy to find something in common. As if being dumped, unconscious, on the same basement floor weren't enough for her. “I mean, ESU, not NYU, and political science, not public policy. But I am halfway through my senior year! I just didn't have a clue how old you were—except full-grown, clearly, sorry—all I could figure out is, you are _built_. Clearly the one that's going to make it at least almost to the end of the movie. Dude, if I get eviscerated, make my death worth something, okay? It'll be quite the death. I wasn't kidding on the fat part. I can probably keep even two lions happy for a while while you make your escape. Just look off heroically into the sunset once everybody's killed, or in jail, or vanquished, or whatever, let a tear trickle down your face or at least look like you want one to, and then go, I dunno, eat a Twinkie in memory of me. And make sure they put Foggy on my tombstone, I don't want anyone ever thinking of me as Francesca.”

Matt let out a chuckle despite himself.

“So should I think of you as Foggy as well?” he asked.

“Oh, right, we never got around to names,” Foggy said. “Yeah, Foggy Nelson, good to meet you, call me Foggy.” She stroked along his arm until she reached his hand, then shook it firmly.

“Matt Murdock,” he replied, “but you can call me Matt.” He was surprised by her sudden intake of breath—she had been calming down, despite the morbid speech she'd given, but now something was working her up again.

“Really? Matt Murdock from Hell's Kitchen Matt Murdock?” She must have taken his stiffening as assent, because she continued, “Oh, wow, no wonder you aren't freaking out about it being so dark in here. Wow, it's a privilege to meet you. I heard about what you did when you were a kid, saving that old guy crossing the street?”

“I just did what anyone would have,” Matt demurred, removing his hand from hers.

“No. No, no, no. Bullshit. You are a hero. Yeah, I had it pegged. You will clearly make it through to the end of the film. Just don't go sacrificing anything to save me. I think once in a lifetime is enough, dude. Let me be the one to take it for the team, this time.”

“I'd rather work on getting away before anyone has to 'take it for the team,' Foggy,” Matt said. “Let's try that, instead of turning this into a self-fulfilling prophecy of a horror movie.”

“Yeah, you'd probably be good at staring off into the distance, but the view would be wasted on you,” said Foggy. “All right, let's figure this out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Foggy might be twisting her genres a little, as savvy as she is. Too bad she's genre-blind to the fact she's in a superhero story. Not that that would necessarily be all that reassuring...


	2. Black Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy learn a little more about their surroundings despite a growing interest in each other, while the author desperately tries to pretend that random babbling is really exposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Foggy. She just wouldn't shut up. It's a coping strategy, all right? Oh, shut up, you in the peanut gallery!
> 
> Despite that, this is a rather short chapter. Sorry! It started, middled, and ended on me. I could add in more from Foggy, but I think there's already PLENTY there.

“All right,” Matt echoed. “Let's start by learning more about where we are.”

“I'm not sure how much help I'll be with that. I've been awake much longer than you have, and I didn't even figure out the basement thing until you said it. All I've figured out is that we are in a room, not very big, not very small, with a giant bolted metal door that might as well have 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here' inscribed on it. And that's it. Four walls, and the door, and you lying against one of the walls perpendicular to the door. Seriously, you were the height of the décor, like someone decided, 'You know what would spruce this room up? Muscles! Let's find the most muscley dude we can afford, that'll make up for the lack of light and windows and multiple exits and, y'know, furniture or nails or anything that can be improvised into a weapon!'”

“Calm down, calm down, Foggy,” Matt murmured. His lip was twitching again, but he quelled it. He didn't know why he was having gruesomely inappropriate responses to almost everything Foggy said; she might have been humorizing the situation in order to trivialize it even as she edged toward hysteria, but he didn't think she'd appreciate his actually laughing in what was, after all, a rather bleak predicament. No matter how much she apparently appreciated his muscles. He wasn't sure why he was so tempted to laugh, anyhow—probably it was his own response to stress, just as hers was to satirize it. He certainly didn't laugh all that much normally. “And I'm not all that muscular.”

“Yeah, I did say 'as much as they could afford,' and I think they had a budget,” Foggy retorted. “Like, a small one. The sinister whoevers had enough to kidnap a blind dude and a overweight chick, both drunk, but didn't have enough in the budget for anything to tie us up with, or keep us unconscious until their pernicious plans come to fruition, or whatever. Maybe the whole pitch-black thing is just a cost-cutting measure, not a psych-out. I hope they get their money's worth when they pawn my awesome boots. It could go towards their electrical bill.”

“Well, let's see what I, with my small-budget muscles, can figure out,” Matt said, hoisting himself to his feet. He stood still a moment as his head swam and his much-discussed muscles protested—the cramping after-effects of the tasing had, of course, dissipated long ago, but he had lain crumpled on a cold cement floor for quite a while. Otherwise, whatever was used on him seemed to have left his system. He was surprised he still couldn't sense much outside the room he was in. This basement must have very thick walls.

“Oh, I don't think your muscles are _that_ small budget. I mean, you're no Arnie or Fabio, but you're not a college indie film, either. Probably more like, I dunno, Jeremy Renner,” announced Foggy, with all the weight of a serious amount of thought behind the comparison.

“I don't know how many muscles he has,” Matt complained as he started heading slowly for the door. “His movies are after my time,” he added, a little preoccupied. The floor was uneven near the middle of the room, in a way that was so peculiarly regular that he bent down to have a better feel.

“Sorry,” Foggy said. “I didn't think of that.” Then she fell silent, as Matt carefully pushed his hand through the dust at his feet. He stood up and walked a little, running his toe along the floor, then bent down again. This was promising.

“Luke Skywalker!” Foggy suddenly announced. “I mean, after he's been training with Yoda, and it's clear he's got plenty enough muscle, thank you, but he doesn't look all weird with it. That's your level of muscleyness. What are you doing, anyhow? The door is over that direction.” A pause, then, “I just pointed, by the way. I don't know why; I can't even see it. Completely useless gesture.”

“I'm examining the floor,” Matt said. “There's something strange about it, and I think I know what it is.”

“Really? What is it? Trapdoor? Rancor pit?”

Matt huffed, a gentle admonition of an exhalation, and Foggy said, “Wow, that was the verbal equivalent of a 'You idiot!' glare, wasn't it? You're good at this non-visual stuff, unsurprisingly. Sorry, I just have _Star Wars_ on the brain now. Really, what did you find?”

“Something very heavy lay here for a very long time,” Matt responded. “Decades, at least. I think it was a coal boiler.”

“This was a boiler room?” Foggy exclaimed excitedly. “Wait, that means I was wrong! There's gotta be more exits! I mean, hole for the pipe for the hot water to go up, chimney for the smoke...”

“...and a coal chute,” Matt finished for her, just as excited. “We've just got to find it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! I never would have sat down to write more so quickly were it not for your lovely, lovely comments.
> 
> And seriously, if you think you see some kind of mistake, please let me know. I'm not averse to editing my stuff over and over again--I've already changed a bunch of tiny stuff (including some verb tenses, how embarrassing) in the first chapter. Constructive criticism is very welcome.


	3. Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy work on getting out. It's not quite as easy as it sounds. Or: Nelson & Murdock vs. The Patch Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should update my lack of experience here. I have never: been tased, removed epoxy, had a basement with a removed coal boiler (although we still have an ancient one we're going to scrap, one of these days), had a hangover, done parkour, or bought hideous but comfortable flannel shirts from the bargain rack. (I mostly just borrowed them from my brothers.)

It took longer than Matt thought acceptable to find the coal chute. He mentally cursed himself for getting so caught up in writing papers and studying for exams that he had let his sensory exercises slip for a few weeks. It may have made surviving dining services easier, but he was paying for it now as he circled the room, Foggy's right hand clutching tightly to his left. (“You can be my blind guru, like Yoda!” she had exclaimed when he had walked back to her and asked for her help. “If Yoda were blind.” At least she was no longer sitting on the floor.) It wasn't until his fingers running along the wall disturbed the remains of rust enough for him to smell it that he finally identified the probable location of the coal bin. Then it was a simple matter, trivial, really, to move up.

Well, trivial for his hearing, at least. He tilted his head up and aimed a steady stream of tongue clicks at the wall until part of it echoed back differently. It was cheatingly easy, of course—Stick would have been so ashamed—but expedience was important, here. The hatch where coal used to be dumped into the cellar was a good size, a rectangle that measured two feet by three. It wasn't going to be easy to reach, however. The bottom of the outline of the wall patch covering the outdated hatch was just shy of eight feet above the ground. That was probably ground level, then.

“What was that?” Foggy whispered, apparently deciding he was done.

“Echolocation,” he replied absently. He could manage to reach the bottom of the wall-patch, which was surrounded with the odd bumpy texture of epoxy, by standing on his tiptoes. Reaching the rest of the panel was going to be difficult. “The echoes of the sounds bouncing off objects in front of me lets me know where they are. I've found where the coal hatch used to be, and now I'm going to try to remove the drywall they covered the hole with.” As he spoke, he removed his hand from Foggy's and began picking at the epoxy. Fortunately, it was old and fairly loose; it should be possible to remove with a little work.

“Here, let me help,” Foggy said, and he paused a moment, allowing her to feel along his arm and up to where he was working. “Wow, that's—that's high. I'm not sure my shoulders are going to like me much, soon,” she added, as she began to work right alongside him. “And neither are my fingers. Ouch! It's enough to make me wish I hadn't cut my nails so short,” she mused. She was silent for a while as she worked, occasionally making little hops to try to reach her target better. “That echolocation thing sounds really cool. Is that like, Blindness 301? Or is it more a seminar for grad students, invitation only? Would I be able to learn it if we were stuck here for a few more weeks, or is this a years-in-the-learning skill?”

“I certainly hope we're not here for weeks,” Matt responded. “We don't have any water.”

“Don't remind me,” she kvetched. “I'm trying not to think about it. There's not much worse than waking up with a hangover, except for waking up with a hangover and a drug hangover and not having been able to drink any water the night before and there still being no w-water around! And I'm cold, and scared, and t-tired, but there's nothing we can do about _any_ of that, so let's talk about, about echolocation instead. It beats evisceration as a topic, hands-down” she declared. Matt winced, regretting his injudicious comment. He hadn't meant to mock her bravery.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” he told her. He turned and grabbed her by the shoulders, running his hands down her sides until he had a firm grip on each of her arms just above the elbows. “We'll get through this. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, as her body swayed with the force of a nod. And then, “I just nodded. Right. We'll get through this.”

“And, come to think of it,” he added as part of her earlier speech belatedly registered, “there is something I can do about one of your problems.” Now that he was holding her, he could confirm his impression that, despite her several comments about her weight, she wasn't actually obese. Just... plump, with curves that betrayed an occasional indulgence in snacks and a complete avoidance of strenuous exercise. He would be unable to honestly return the “muscley” compliment she had made, but she wasn't unpleasantly flabby to the touch. Instead, she was... soft. He realized he was rubbing her upper arms gently, his fingertips stroking the side of her t-shirt, trying to reduce the goosebumps that confirmed her complaint about the cold.

Matt took a step back and dropped her arms, abruptly recalling himself from wherever his scattered thoughts had been going. Good. This would be easy, then. Her general torso size wasn't that far from his own, after all. He quickly unbuttoned his overshirt, removed it, and dangled it in front of her for a moment. When she didn't do anything in response, he gently draped it, open, over her shoulders. He kept forgetting that she wouldn't be able to see, and that she didn't have his experience in compensating for that.

“Oh... Oh, thanks!” she said, putting it on properly. He was right: the buttons did button, although the fit was probably very different on her than it had been on him. She unrolled the sleeves of the shirt and buttoned them, as well. “Oh, wow, this is really, really nice-feeling,” she said. “And _warm_. Oh, thank you so much, dude!”

“You know, you really can call me Matt,” he replied, allowing himself to feel pleased with being able to help. He knew exactly how soft and warm that shirt was. He had been worried that it was too much of an extravagance when he'd gotten it, despite its actual price. Now, finally, he had a justification for it: it was keeping Foggy warm in a situation where it would far too easy for her to start going into shock. “I'm blind, all I have to go by when picking clothes out is texture. Fair warning: it's probably some hideous combination of colors, since it came from the bargain rack. And I wasn't exactly dressing to impress, last night. Plus, it's covered in dirt, by now.”

“Are you sure you don't mean I can call you Sir Walter Raleigh?” Foggy muttered, then quickly added, much more loudly, “Well, I did dress to impress, and the Spock on my t-shirt is now judging me for the illogic of wearing a short-sleeved shirt in December. But I promise, I had this really cool leather jacket to go with it!”

Matt bit down the impulse to ask what Spock thought about the jacket, and decided that he needed to center himself as soon as possible. He'd clearly missed something in his last self-assessment, if the general loopiness of his thoughts was any indication. He didn't want to make any costly errors in judgment; they were in danger, they didn't have time to waste on mental maundering.

“I'm going to need to sit down for a little,” he admitted to Foggy.

“Oh, thank goodness, break time!” she rejoiced, even though they hadn't been “working” for long at all, and had stopped a while ago. She joined him on the floor, her side against his, her legs stretching out toward the center of the room. Denying his first impulse, he didn't allow her proximity to distract him from his meditation. Proper meditation, this time, with correct position and posture. Foggy must have intuited what he needed, because she soon fell silent unasked.

Foggy shifting next to him brought him up and out, an immeasurable amount of time (between eight and ten minutes, his inner clock, which was functional again, corrected) later. She was running her hands along the front of her new overshirt, seemingly enjoying the feel of the brushed flannel on fingers that had been fumbling at epoxy a little while before. And just like that, a more efficient solution to their problem presented itself to his mind. He really had needed that meditation.

He felt his lips curl into a vicious grin, and could hear it in his own voice when he spoke. “I know how to get that drywall patch off,” he announced, “but I'll need a little help from you.”

“Really?” she announced, pleased. “Just tell me what to do, dude! Matt, I mean. I'm all yours!” she promised.

As he explained his plan, however, her eagerness faded, and she was silent for a while after he'd finished speaking. He stood up and stretched, trying to shake off the sting of her implicit refusal. Then, all of a sudden, she moved her head (a nod? a shrug?) and said, “Oh, wait, sorry, I forgot for a moment there. I was trying to apply real-world logic to what is clearly an awesome sequence in an action movie. At least we've upgraded from horror movies. I'll do it, I'll help you, Matt. I trust you. You haven't led us wrong yet. I just don't think that what you're describing is actually physically possible. I mean, you'd have to have the abs and flexibility of Jackie Chan.”

Matt swallowed. _I trust you._ Why was that hitting him so hard? He fiercely reminded himself that Foggy's judgment was demonstrably poor, what with her going to bars alone and wearing t-shirts in December and attending ESU, for goodness' sake. “I haven't led you anywhere at all,” he pointed out past the lump that remained in his throat. “And I think it's at least worth a try.” He started clicking again, this time aiming his ears at the ceiling and walking toward a spot that sounded promising. “Here, I think. Yeah, there's a good pipe straight above me.”

“All right,” said Foggy, “I'll do what I can.” She moved very slowly, however, until he remembered to reach out and let her grab his forearm, directing her to where he wanted her. “I'll even try not to grope you, Matt. I'm a gentleman.”

“You've already groped me, Foggy,” Matt pointed out reasonably. “You wouldn't be able to rate me on your celebrity scale of muscularity otherwise.”

Foggy choked. “You're so right, you're so totally right,” she gasped. “Oh, oh, that is so sketchy! I groped you _while you were unconscious_! That's straight out of, like, an eighties romance novel right there! I didn't even think about what I was doing that way! I'm so sorry!”

“I know, I know, it was to make sure I was okay, medically,” Matt informed her. “Like a doctor, or something. I understand.”

“Doctor Nelson? No, Matt, now we're descending from cheesy romances straight into porn! Stop, stop, let me off this ride, I don't wanna be a porn star!” she wailed, then hiccuped, clearly trying to shut down the bright, boisterous peal of laughter her whole body seemed primed to release. “Focus, Foggy,” she reprimanded herself sharply, and let out a couple sharp breaths.

It was good to see that he was not the only one having a little trouble focusing, then. Not even an atypical reaction to the situation, judging by the sample group.

“How are we going to do this?” she finally asked Matt.

“Very, very awkwardly,” he let her know. “And here's the part where I might grope you. I apologize in advance.”

“I am so past caring about that right now,” Foggy declared as he started pushing her legs into a firmer stance. The next several moments were filled with “No, try this,” and “Hey, what about...?” until they had found something useable. Matt was right. It was awkward.

A few seconds and a running start later, however, it proved effective, as Matt successfully chinned a pipe a short distance from and parallel to the patched portion of the basement wall. He kept swinging back and forth, making sure not lose any of the momentum he intended to use on his goal. The drywall, while hard to scrabble at without any better tools than their fingernails, would never stand up to a well-placed kick. They were going to make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Matt. Hello, angsty Matt. Hello, self-deluding Matt. Hello, ninja Matt. It's so nice to have you with us.
> 
> I'm pondering making fanart for this. The visuals I've written just demand it. (No, seriously, if fanart of these chapters doesn't look like the negative of that rabbit in a snowstorm painting, then I'm doing something wrong as an author, right?)


	4. Back Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way out is... not through, that's for sure.
> 
> Meanwhile, Matt decides it's his turn to make Foggy laugh. He's afraid he's not quite as good at it as she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I have finally arrived at the part that almost sideways fills another request at the kinkmeme.
> 
> Edited to say: This chapter now 100% better thanks to input from [Ahavaa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahavaa/pseuds/Ahavaa). Thank you so much! You, too, could be included in my notes if you provided constructive criticism. (I'm not sure how much of an inducement that is, but it's all I've got.)

Once again, Matt was right. The drywall exploded into large pieces at the first kick, the insulation tucked behind it sending a few wisps toward the room as well.

"Wow, you really are a ninja!" Foggy wonderingly exclaimed. "Forget Luke Skywalker, you've been upgraded to Jackie Chan." Matt smiled in response, and propped one foot up on the bottom of the newly made hole so he could kick harder with the other. He knocked insulation to the floor until his hold on the pipe started slipping. By the time Matt dropped down, he had cleaned out most of the hole.

He made sure to swing well clear of Foggy and roll his landing, then bent down to pick loose insulation from his feet. “We did it!” he exclaimed.

“ _You_ did it," Foggy pointed out. "I had almost nothing to do with that, that display of machismo. But what, exactly, did you do? Nothing's changed. It's as dark as ever in here. The only thing that's changed is that we've got spare insulation fluff floating around now. Is this asbestos? Do we know? Are we going to die of cancer now? I got some in my _mouth_ , Matt," she complained. "I'm going to die of cancer of the mouth. And it tastes disgusting.”

“It beats dying from evisceration, Foggy,” Matt pointed out patiently. “And you might not be able to see anything yet, but we have gained another sense. Shh! Listen.”

Matt turned his attention to the world that was audible beyond the hatch. What he could hear was not reassuring. Long, low growls, the kind that betrayed exposed teeth, alternated with fierce barks. A stomach loudly protested its emptiness. Chains jingled in time with the scratching of claws and the scrape of sneakers on cement, both moving from his left to his right. The noises repeated, and then again. And beyond all that, he could hear men's voices. Their discussion made him feel strange, like he'd taken a misstep when he had been sure of his footing, because it was nostalgically familiar, with an admixture of the completely novel. Men standing somewhere nearby were calculating odds for a series of fights, with the fighters' names including such gems as “Skullcrusher” and “Tyrant.”

"Are those... dogs? Am I hearing dogs?" Foggy asked. She was standing next to the wall under the hatch again, having apparently lost some of her fear of moving in the dark. About time, Matt told himself. Too bad that fear was rapidly being overtaken by a new one. "Angry ones. Really, really angry." Her voice trailed off, and then she swallowed, and swallowed again.

"Good ear, Foggy," Matt encouraged her. He might as well emphasize whatever positives he could find in this situation. "I think, I think someone's setting up a dog fight. Those are large dogs up there, poorly treated, and they're being dragged by chains. Like you would a vicious dog. That's what I can hear," he said, biting back the urge to share _everything_ he could hear with her. She didn't need to know it; it would make her even more nervous; and besides, she'd never believe him anyhow.

"But...but dog fights are illegal!" Foggy protested. "It's, what, a felony now, right?"

"What, and kidnapping us is perfectly hunky-dory?" Matt asked. "Tasing me and drugging us is fine, throwing us into a stripped room and bolting the door is dandy, but you think they'll draw the line at _dog fights_? Something people have been enjoying, mostly legitimately, for centuries?"

"Okay, we're not dealing with nice people, I know that. And there really do seem to be a lot of angry dogs out there. It's just... this is actually putting evisceration on the table. It was supposed to be _funny_ , it was way more bizarre than whatever was actually going on! And now we're surrounded by vicious attack dogs! Evisceration was supposed to be a _joke_!"

Alarmed by the rapid increase in the strength (and pitch) of Foggy's voice, Matt quickly moved behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders and speaking directly into her ear. "Quiet!" he warned. "If we can hear them, they can hear us." As they stood stock still in utter silence, straining their ears to catch any changes in the noises from outside, they were both in perfect position to hear a dog working itself up; apparently Foggy's rant _had_ been heard. The beast's growls and snarls increased in an abrupt crescendo that culminated in a sudden, shocking silence.

Stun baton, most likely, Matt judged, as both the man holding the chain and the one who had shocked the Rottweiler quickly dragged the dog away. He felt an unwilling empathy for the animal. "I wish he'd... saved that for... the ring," panted the ad hoc handler from directly above them. "He's coming out of it! Get him again!" he ordered.

Foggy was shaking. "Yeah, dog fight," she whispered. "Why did you have to be right? How are we--how are we ever going to get out of this?" As she spoke, her voice obviously shaking despite its quietness, Matt stepped forward a half step and lowered his hands into a loose embrace, trying to comfort her with his presence without making her feel confined. It must have worked, because Foggy leaned her weight against his chest, her head cocked forward, face still directed toward the hatch to catch any more noises. "Boy, am I glad we didn't break all the way through that hatch!" she exclaimed suddenly, though still in a whisper. "Can you imagine if we had?"

"Yeah," he drawled sotto voce. "I mean, I might be able to get back up there and push the plate outside off the wall, but I think we're actually safer where we are right now."

"No kidding," Foggy whispered. "Why don't we just live here, in this cozy little disused boiler room? It'll be great, like Mike Mulligan! I'll be Mike," she added, her voice rising a little in resolve, "you can be Mary Anne."

"Shh," Matt admonished, and Foggy grabbed his hands in silent apology. Two burly men escorted an equally burly bull terrier past the hatch, and Matt tightened his hug around her tense figure. They stood in silence for a while, listening as dog after dog passed by. Foggy wrapped Matt's forearms tightly against her stomach, clamping down on them with her own arms, while Matt gathered and sorted through all the details he could hear.

Despite the fairly small size of the room they were in, Matt decided that they were actually under a large commercial building. A warehouse, maybe? A factory? Something like that seemed the only reasonable explanation for the way the repetitive scrape of metal chairs across a concrete floor, accompanied by idle conversation, echoed above him. Meanwhile, dogs were being transported one at a time from a regular stream of vehicles to a holding area on the other side of the building from the street; Matt estimated that there were already over twenty animals out there, miserable in their small enclosures. The steady hum of a large generator in the background confirmed that all of this was taking place completely off the grid.

When Matt felt confident about his mental map of the area, he returned his attention to his immediate surroundings, and realized that, at some point, he'd begun slowly running his forearms up and down Foggy's borrowed overshirt, subconsciously enjoying the sensation of softness over curves. He stopped abruptly, ashamed of himself. He shouldn't need to seek comfort: he'd been trained to be better than that. Fortunately, Foggy hadn't seemed to catch his momentary weakness or notice his imposition. Or perhaps it wasn't so fortunate: Matt realized that her breathing had sped up and her legs were beginning to shake. He needed to refocus her attention, quickly, before her incipient panic attack gained any ground. Matt turned her slightly and slowly sank with her to the floor, seating them next to each other. Foggy refused to let go of the hand nearest her, which ended up draped over her shoulders; touch apparently wasn't a trigger for her then, at least not at the moment. Desperate to divert her from the sounds filtering down from outside, Matt gave a belated reply to her most recent comment. "I'm not sure how good a Mary Anne I'd make. I mean, I don't know that I can get more done in a day than a hundred men can do in a week," he admitted quietly, his mouth finding her ear again, as he carefully stretched his legs out beside hers, keeping his knees bent in case he needed to get up again quickly.

"You, you couldn't prove it by me," she stuttered. "I could never do what you did up on that pipe in, in a hundred years."

"Oh, you could," he assured her. "If there were a hundred of you."

"Maybe," she snorted quietly, "but it would take the whole week. You are definitely Mary Anne."

She seemed a little calmer, and Matt thought the conversation might be helping. Since he doubted she'd find the current topic of conversation diverting for very long, he decided to branch out a little. "So you went to Josie's Bar for your post-exam celebration. Why?" he asked. "I'm certain there are plenty of places closer to campus for you. With other students for you to celebrate with. Not to mention cleaner. Where you could get, I don't know, actual cocktails?"

"Oh, you are _not_ dissing Josie's," Foggy whispered back fiercely. "That is _not_ what I am hearing. What kind of Hell's Kitchen boy are you, mocking one of the few places that hasn't been gentrified past recognition? I'll have you know that Josie is awesome, and she refuses to serve cocktails as a point of civic pride. The kind of pride that decides going to Josie's with a legitimate I.D. is like a, an essential coming-of-age ritual, to be done as soon as you can manage to make it over there. Even if that does take half a year. Drinking at Josie's shouts, 'I have arrived at maturity!' The fact that I was able to outdrink Brett Mahoney was just a bonus."

"Hmm. Maturity," Matt muttered quietly, stretching out the word dubiously. He couldn't resist a huffed laugh as Foggy elbowed him in response.

His breath then stuttered and his whole body tightened as one of the phrases being spoken above him caught his attention with its familiarity. He was grateful that Foggy quickly mirrored his sudden tension, sitting stiffly and quietly next to him, even as he urgently wished she were back at Josie's, drinking with whoever Brett Mahoney was. Up above them, someone was giving his coarse opinion, at length, on the best uses for "the fat chick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this feels like an uneven chapter. I mean, some of that's intentional, as the focus whiplashes between what our heroes can control and what they can't, but it still feels strange. Also, long.
> 
> Happy Steve Rogers' birthday, everybody, and don't expect any new chapters for a while!


	5. Bad Guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boring exposition. But this time, it comes from the mouths of henchmen!
> 
> Or, in which morosophe discovers that not only will she not write blasphemy, she cannot write slang. Like, at all. (Although I did include another vulgarity in this chapter. Go me!)
> 
> And in which Matt discovers that it's actually really hard to hide from someone when you're both trapped in pitch blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just realized that I gave Foggy the same name ("Francesca") that I gave to a character I implied had a disastrous relationship with Matt Murdock in my other Daredevil fic, [A Touch That Never Hurts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4217550). I would like to state here, for the record, that I have nothing against the name or any of the doubtless lovely women associated with it. 
> 
> I have never: known any Francescas, actually seen _The Birds_ , fantasized destitute people dying horribly, shocked a dog, witnessed someone having an absence seizure (that I know of), or worn a Star Trek t-shirt. (Although my Star Wars t-shirt once won a meal for my then-boyfriend from an appreciative cafeteria worker.)

Matt welcomed it when another voice finally interrupted the screed of vile suggestions. This one was slightly higher, perhaps only lacking the years of cigarette smoke coating the lungs that produced it. “Wow, buddy, I had no idea you had such a chubby kink,” he heard. “Too bad Chuck beat you to this one. He thinks it will thrill all the VIPs that are attending tonight's 'opening ceremony'; they can all pretend she's their wives or daughters or third mistresses, whatever. They can get, like, the pleasure of pretending it's their nearest and dearest getting mauled to death, and then the relief of knowing they're still safe. Like watching a really good movie can be, y'know? But live action. And maybe the fantasy of thinking 'Oh, but I could do that to my girl, if she doesn't shape up.'”

Matt thought savagely that he would quite like to experience some live-action catharsis, preferably with respect to this joker's face. He wasn't quite as relieved that Mr. Chubby-Kink Smoker had finally stopped talking any more.

Which, of course, is when he started talking again. “And what, the blind guy's supposed to represent the beggars that always mob you when you get off the subway? I guess that makes sense. I swear, sometimes it's like that old horror movie, y'know, the one with the birds attacking people? Be nice to see one of them attacked like that. I guess I get what you're saying, about good movies. And that would be kind of cool to watch in person.” Okay, so Mr. Chubby-Kink Smoker—Matt decided to rename him Mr. Philanthropist, for his obvious charitable views—wasn't really winning him over, but the change in conversational topics was, at least, a welcome relief.

“Naw, he really did piss somebody off. Kept wrecking the curve for one of those guys who's supposed to be well-paid to look the other direction in a few years, after a few elections. Apparently, he probably wouldn't have minded so much if the blind guy hadn't been such a prima donna about it, getting treated special by all the teachers and having private little sessions for all of his tests. Seriously, how can grading that with normal tests be fair?”

Matt was definitely dubbing this speaker Mr. Humanitarian. It was the only possible name.

After a short pause, while both men apparently considered the unexpected vagaries of life, Mr. Humanitarian picked the conversation back up—right in the direction Matt would have preferred it not to go. “But seriously, buddy, isn't this job great? All we have to do is move things around and keep our mouths shut, and we have plenty of extra for our Christmas cheer. What say we hit the bars tonight? I know just the place for you! It'll have plenty of fat chicks desperate for a little attention from anybody, let alone a big strong guy like you. It doesn't even card, not really, so you might be able to find a little under-age action, right?”

“That's more your thing, Jake.” Matt privately preferred the appellation “Mr. Humanitarian.” “It just seems like such a waste. Here she is. In a few hours she'll be dead.”

“Just like some of the dogs they let into the cage with her,” pointed out Mr. Humanitarian. At least he had some regard for animals. “It's gotta be exciting, watching all that." Or maybe not. "I think they should let the blind guy go first, have it be all about ignorance, and then let the girl go, have it be all about how knowledge doesn't save you, either. Poetic, like. Wow, look at the time, I have got to get going before the bank closes! I'll text you about that bar, all right?”

As the conversation closed, Matt became aware that Foggy was repeating words in a voice that suggested she had probably been speaking them for some time, although it never rose above pianissimo. “Matt, let go. Matt, you're hurting me. Matt, let go, please.” Her hands were trying to lift his arm from her shoulders, where he had clamped it in his distress at the conversation.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Matt said as he let go abruptly, banging his arm against the wall in his hurry to get it _off_ her. He stood quickly and carefully moved away from her, not wanting to kick her on top of everything else, and shuddered in relief when he managed to reach the nearest corner. She should be able to hear him coming, now, even at her level of hearing. He couldn't seem to stop talking, though. “I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I really didn't mean to hurt you, Foggy. Really, I mean, I didn't even realize I was doing it!” And now he was starting to get a little too loud. Matt refused to slap his mouth as Foggy had done earlier, but he did force himself to _stop talking_ , taking several deep breaths and counting as he did so. This was Foggy's turn to speak. Her perspective had already been ignored enough.

“And now he's gibbering in the corner. Great. Yeah, that'll help,” Foggy said under her breath. She rose and approached him. “Calm down, Matt. You didn't hurt me that much. I doubt I'll even bruise—fat provides a lot of padding, y'know?” She reached out toward him, first finding the wall and then his side. She gave Matt a light pat, and felt the convulsive shudder that went through his system in response. Foggy instantly removed her hand, and he could hear the shift in the air when she—was she raising both hands, surrender style? Really? Despite himself, Matt relaxed in response to the goofiness of the gesture.

“I just wanna know what is going on with you,” Foggy continued quietly. “You keep tuning out on me, and I'm not sure how to help when you do it. What's causing it? Thinking really, really hard? Petit mal seizures? Panic attacks? In which case, let me say, I completely understand. Psychic messages from aliens? Split-second visions of the future with accompanying micro-migraines? Tell me when I'm getting warm, here, Matt. And tell me what to _do_.”

“I'm just, I'm just listening, Foggy. That's all I'm doing. I promise. Well, except for that time I was meditating.”

“I actually knew about the meditation, come to think of it. You didn't exactly hide it. But I think you may be hiding something now.” Foggy was silent for a while, as if allowing Matt to fix that problem. When he didn't say anything, Foggy slowly lowered her arms, and then, as if the motion had suggested something to her, lowered the rest of herself to a squat on the dirty floor. “I'm just going to sit _right here_ , where I can be sure I won't trip over drywall or anything, and let you 'listen,' then. I've got to admit, I do think you can hear more than me. Just clue me in when there's something I can do, all right? If you, like, convulse so hard your head hits the wall or the floor, I'll probably hear it, and come grope you some more. Just a little warning.

"Meanwhile, I'll just, just sit and contemplate what level of hell everyone involved with this room belongs in. Seriously, even I can tell that drywall patch was moldy, _without even seeing it,_ and that just doesn't happen unless...” With an effort, Matt turned his focus away from the quiet monologue that Foggy had started, apparently to distract herself from the fact that her partner in kidnapping was now keeping secrets, and decided to do as she had bidden and _listen_.

It took Matt a while to catch the sound of Mr. Philanthropist's voice again, longer than he expected. The noises that suggested all the set-up work had been done and many of the erstwhile workers were leaving diverted his attention for a little while. Mr. Philanthropist hadn't left, though, and, as little as he liked the man's conversation, this one seemed important. “...make it worth your while,” he heard.

“All right, all right, you're right, it's a tragic waste. There isn't time to dose her again, though, not and have her awake and aware by tonight's ceremony. You'll have to figure out some way to restrain her. And I have no idea whether the blind guy is awake yet or not. Denny said the amount of alcohol he drank probably made him sleep longer—he was still out when we dropped the girl there, but he's probably awake by now. Or in a coma. Like I know.” He really, really didn't, thought Matt.

“Wow, thanks, Chuck,” returned the unwelcome voice of Mr. Philanthropist after a short break that involved the jingling of a key against its key chain.

“Yeah, I'll need that back in an hour, though, so I have time to get them in place for tonight."

And it was probably time to let Foggy know what was happening. There was a real, immediate threat here, primarily to her, and the fact that she had moved on to misquoting Coleridge to relate the mold on the drywall to her current level of dehydration did not reduce that threat one iota, no matter what it felt like. The old boiler room was not, in fact, a safe refuge from the world, no matter how nice that would have been. It seemed a bad idea to keep something that concerned Foggy's safety so much a secret from her, even though telling her involved opening the Pandora's box of revealing his abilities.

Still, maybe they could have one last good moment. The conversation “Chuck” was having with Mr. Philanthropy about recommended safety practices suggested they'd have a little while. Maybe he could get one last chuckle out of Foggy before he forced himself to reveal what he'd kept close and secret, like a treasure or a disgrace, since childhood. “Speaking of which, maybe you can now answer an age-old question, Foggy. How _did_ Mike Mulligan go to the bathroom?”

Matt was not disappointed. The full-throated laugh that earned him was all he could have asked for as a last hurrah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: Next chapter, Foggy will reveal that she does in fact know the source of that final question. Which means that, so does the author. Just in case it was worrying you.
> 
> In case the question itself is worrying you, the answer is: Mike Mulligan drank too much hard liquor and visited the ladies' room before being abducted. Mike Mulligan really is dehydrated. Mary Anne has been meditating™. Stick was all about not letting little things like basic bodily functions stop you. (Anyone who's ever worked or traveled with small children might find themselves actually siding with Stick on this point.)
> 
> (And in case the Coleridge reference was too obscure, Foggy is doing a variation on the lines, "Water, water, every where, / And all the boards did shrink; / Water, water, every where, / Nor any drop to drink," from _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_.)
> 
> But really, sooooooooo much bad guy in this chapter. I ended up with whole passages of both conversations that I cut, even, although the latter one might still come into play in the next chapter. That writing wasn't easy. I had to make them unthinkingly nasty (although Mr. Humanitarian kept thinking, just in _all the wrong ways_ ,) and figure out their motivations and just, yuck. Please let me know how you think I did? And any applicable slang that might be a little more current than that from _The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook_?
> 
> Also, any additional trigger warnings you think would be appropriate?


	6. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt brings Foggy up to speed, while Foggy goes from zero to sixty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boring exposition is boring. Sorry, people!

Eventually, Foggy's laughter trailed off, although there was a moment there when Matt feared it would turn into tears. He was thankful she was able to prevent that; he had _no idea_ what he would have done had she turned hysterical, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. “Ramona Quimby,” she finally said, in a voice that wavered only a little, “ _Ramona the Pest_. You space out for forever and won't talk to me, and when you do, it's to reference every third grade girl's favorite read. Really? Were you having some kind of non-traumatic flashback brought on by the reminder of Mike Mulligan? I hope it was non-traumatic, at least, I don't want to think of what would make either Burton or, or Cleary traumatic. And come to think of it, I think non-traumatic flashbacks are usually just called memories.”

“No, no, I wasn't remembering anything, I was just...” Matt let his voice trail off, as he wrestled with what he wanted to say next. The pile of completed applications to law school back in his dorm room would argue that he usually didn't have this much trouble finding ways to state his case. Meanwhile, from what he was hearing upstairs, Mr. Philanthropist was making all the wrong decisions, probably guided more by his desires than his intelligence. To be fair, that had been true all along. Maybe he wouldn't have to tell Foggy anything at all. Maybe he could just, just do this by himself, and she wouldn't be in any danger, and...

Matt considered Foggy: how she was still sitting patiently on the floor where she had backed away when he'd flinched; how she was sure he was hiding some kind of condition that made him, her only help in a pitch-black locked room, less than reliable, but was still holding it together as well as she could so that she wouldn't fail him. He thought about how easily she had said she trusted him even though they hadn't known each other very long, and how she was proving that by waiting for an explanation of his behavior that would make sense, and had made it very clear that she would accept whatever he told her, no matter how zany and off-the-wall. He remembered how Mr. Philanthropist saw her as nothing more than a body he found pleasing enough to slake his lust, and would never care to notice her courage or her compassion or her wry humor. He took another two breaths—in and out, steady and easy—and then he started talking.

“I really was just listening. I can hear a little more than you can, that's all.”

"No kidding,” snorted Foggy, “since all I've heard for the past twenty minutes is... nothing. I think they're done moving the dogs.”

"They are,” Matt confirmed. “Many of the men who were doing it have packed up and gone home. Some have stayed to guard everything. It sounds like another shift of workers will be arriving in an hour, in preparation for the dog fights that start an hour after that. Things are relatively quiet right now.”

“Wow,” Foggy said in wonder, “if you can hear all that you can _definitely_ hear more than me. I mean, I know they say people who lose one sense adapt by using their others better, but wow.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “it goes a little beyond that for me.” He swallowed dryness down his throat and continued. The only way out, now, was through. He could do this. “I can tell you that you were roofied. Traditional rohypnol, by the way, nothing fancy. You only have a couple of hours left before tests won't be able to detect it, but I, I can still smell it. It was probably in the fruit juice you drank to get the taste of your shots out of your mouth.” There was absolute silence from Foggy, and Matt forced himself to go on. “I can tell that your last meal was a bag of Cheetos, probably a couple hours before you got to Josie's. You shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, Foggy, it's not a great idea. Particularly whatever it was you drank: it's so bottom-shelf I can't even tell what kind of alcohol it's supposed to be, but it smells absolutely terrible. Are you sure that wasn't a bottle of cleaner that got grabbed by mistake?”

“That's what Brett said!” Foggy replied, and then burst into giggles. Definitely bordering on the hysterical this time. “I wasn't, wasn't going to beat Brett Mahoney in a drinking contest based on my ability to hold liquor. He probably weighs as much as I do, and all of that's muscle, not f-fat. I had to go for taste. And oh, the looks on his friends' faces when I could down the third shot and he just c-couldn't!” Matt couldn't tell whether Foggy was laughing or crying, any more. He doubted she could, either. He hovered, uncertain of what to do, tracing the movements of Mr. Philanthropist. They still had a little time.

“Matt, if you're working up to say something bad—and I kind of think you are—I'll believe whatever it is. Just, just, can you— Can I—” Foggy's body moved, forward then backward, and Matt could hear the fabric of her borrowed shirt rubbing against itself. He couldn't figure out what she was asking for, so he moved closer to see if he could learn what she wanted more quickly. Her flailing arm caught his leg, just a little below the knee, and held on tight. He moved his hand down to hers, and she quickly transferred targets, but held on just as hard. “Thanks,” she said, satisfied. She was calming down, although her grip on his hand felt like punishment for how he'd grabbed her shoulder. He didn't say anything to her about it, accepting it as his due after his earlier treatment of her shoulder and the way he hadn't realized she'd want to touch someone to provide an anchor against the horror of what was going on. Instead, he said what he had to.

“Someone's coming. Right now, he's gathering up supplies. Flashlight, stun baton, restraints. I think he already had c-condoms. And he's convinced himself that I'm unconscious, that he doesn't need backup if it's just you.” The way Foggy's breath caught and her heart sped up, he could tell she'd caught the implications.

“Wait, what's that got to do with dog fights?” she asked.

“The dog fights are, are why we're actually here. It's Friday, right?” he asked. Foggy confirmed this with both a jerky nod and a spoken affirmation. He ignored the clench of his stomach as she verified his fear that he had been in that basement a lot longer than he thought, and continued. “Yeah, the dog fights are slated to go all weekend, but we're the, the first thing on the agenda. Tonight. The 'opening ceremony,' although I think it's restricted to VIPs only. But the guy who's making his way down here, he caught a glimpse of you somehow, and decided...” Matt swallowed, unable to finish the sentence.

“Decided what, Matt?” Foggy said, as if she hadn't already caught the implications.

He decided to go with the exact phrasing he had heard used. “Decided it was a _tragic waste_.”

The irony of the statement struck Foggy, and she said, bitterly, “Can't say that I disagree.” She paused a moment, and her grip on his hand was suddenly gone. “Matt,” she said, as she rose to her feet, “if we don't take advantage of the opportunity this moron is giving us, it will be a 'tragic waste.' Now, how are we going to take this guy down?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I really struggled with this chapter. I just couldn't seem to find as much inspiration. Plus, writing Matt willing to reveal his secrets is REALLY HARD, since we all know that's about as out-of-character as he can get. On the other hand, the stakes here are a little lower for him than they are in canon. And Foggy actually needs to know, right?
> 
> I probably won't be able to post as quickly as I did those first chapters ever again. Real life does have a way of intruding.
> 
> Then again, comments might inspire me. They have before!


	7. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proper preparation prevents poor performance.
> 
> Or, Matt and Foggy plot while Mr. Philanthropist looms large.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, it's time for my not-drinking game again! Okay, I have never: taken a self-defense course, had to deal with moldy drywall, applied to law school, bothered to learn correct martial arts terminology, had a flashback, or been a victim of sexual assault. Some of those I probably should do. Okay, just the first one.
> 
> And I finally exceeded 10,000 words! Even if it did take me seven chapters. I feel like this is somehow an accomplishment.

“Come on, let's come up with some kind of plan,” Foggy said, bouncing a little in preparation. “How much time do we have? You said he's getting supplies. And it sounds like he'll have both hands full with them, too. Flashlight, stun baton, you said. And he's got to open the door somehow. This is reminding me of that time I was a bridesmaid, and realized all the work the matron of honor had to do. Seriously, she had to juggle two huge flower bouquets, her own and the bride's, and then hand off the groom's ring to the bride like it's nothing. I bet this guy isn't going to be anywhere near as graceful as Amy was, despite not having to deal with four-inch heels. So, he'll probably put something down to get the door opened. Maybe we can take him by surprise, get to him before he has a chance to either grab his weapon or see to use it. How does this door open, anyhow?”

Since Matt's plans had mostly consisted of having Foggy distract Mr. Philanthropist while he went in for the kill unsuspected, he was rather taken aback at this sudden spate of brainstorming. What she was saying sounded reasonable, though.

“I doubt he'll have the elan of your Amy, no, but he probably has quite some weight on her. This guy sounds _big_ , Foggy. We're going to be punching out of our weight class.”

“You can hear how heavy he is. Of course you can, why am I even questioning this? And you mean _you're_ going to be punching out of _your_ weight class,” Foggy said as she lurched from the corner where they were standing in the general direction of the door. She was slightly off on the location of her target, but Matt was sure she'd figure it out soon enough on her own, and began making his own way toward her destination. “Like I'm going to be doing the fighting when there's a genuine ninja in the room. There's only one of us who has Jackie-Chan level muscles, Matt. Here's a hint: it's not me. But I'm beginning to wish it weren't you, either, if you really think he's that strong?”

“I still feel much more comfortable taking point than having you anywhere near this guy,” he reassured her as he walked, careful not to slip on any of the pieces of drywall that littered the floor. “I can listen for the best possible moment to get him off his guard. And he probably will have to put something down as he uses the key I heard him bribe someone to get.”

He finally reached the door, and Foggy grabbed his hand to show him what she'd found. “Here, here are the hinges,” she said excitedly. “They're on the inside. If I hadn't been so stupid we could have been out of here hours ago.”

Matt felt where she directed, but disagreed with her assessment. “What, exactly, do you think we could have done with these, Foggy?” He asked. “There isn't much to work with, here. And there's no way we could have kicked _these_ off.” He started feeling along the other side of the door, trying to determine if there were anything special about the locking mechanism. There wasn't; there was just a locked deadbolt and a doorknob that couldn't lock. There really wasn't much to work with, and he was glad they hadn't wasted any energy on what Foggy had appropriately described as the “All Hope Abandon” door. Matt moved on to plotting the path of the door when it opened, a task made much easier by the fact that his feet had already discovered the gouge in the floor where the corner of the door had scraped it. The gouge described a neat semi-circle, from the door frame almost to the wall of the room perpendicular to the door.

“We once had to unscrew the hinges my neighbor's bathroom door so she could get out,” Foggy insisted. “Her lock had completely broken. It worked just fine!”

“Yes, it probably did, with a set of tools and hinges that had removable pins,” Matt pointed out. “Let's move on to figuring out what to do. I think this guy's almost ready to come down here. I think I should wait right here, to the side of the door, and open it on him before he's ready. You made a very good point: we can get him off his guard, and I'd rather get close to him before he can try to use that stun baton he's got.”

“And I'll...stand behind the door and keep it open, so that you don't have to worry about it, and he can't easily lock us back in,” Foggy decided.

“That sounds like it should work,” Matt said, glad that she was going to be sensible. “And then you should stay behind that solid metal door so that you don't get any stray knocks by accident. I'm sorry, Foggy, this is going to be... My dad was a boxer, I remember how the matches sounded. When it gets quiet, if you don't hear me talking to you, then go nuts. Hit the guy with the door, punch him, kick him...”

“Knee him in the balls, elbow his neck, head-butt his nose, even scratch or bite him if I have to,” Foggy continued grimly, even as he could almost taste her adrenaline surging. “Stay as far away as possible, but fight dirty with him, because he was always planning on fighting dirty with me. Eyes, nose, ears, neck, groin, knee, legs,” she recited, somehow edging the cadence of a mnemonic chant with a suggestion of violence. “I did pay attention at those safety lectures, y'know; it just looked like I was falling asleep,” she added, clearly trying to insert some levity into her speech, and just as clearly failing. “Oddly enough, they sprang to mind when I woke up with no memory in a room with no light, and realized I'd already failed most of the 'rape prevention' check list.”

Matt shook his head, both to disagree with her statement and to dislodge the memory of her voice almost singing a list of vulnerable body parts from his head. That was actually kind of catchy. “You haven't failed yet,” he reminded her. He was determined not to fail her, either. “Now get into position; he's at the top of the stairs,” he whispered as he turned the doorknob carefully, ready to pull on it once the lock disengaged.

Foggy stood on the other side of the door, facing him, whispering, “Hey, Matt, does this make me your corner man?” and Matt couldn't resist a quick upturn of his lips at the thought, even as Mr. Philanthropist's heavy tread came down the staircase nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consulted ["Basic Self-Defense Moves Anyone Can Do and Everyone Should Know"](http://lifehacker.com/5825528/basic-self-defense-moves-anyone-can-do-and-everyone-should-know) to make up for my inexperience with self-defense. It's an awesome site! But I'm sure many of you are already too knowledgeable for it.
> 
> (Marginalia for this chapter: "Matt likes it when Foggy talks dirty (fighting)" and "Foggy is totally in Matt's corner.")


	8. Boxing and Booty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We arrive at the confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter demonstrates morosophe's best efforts at writing a fight scene. (You know how the summary talks about me being in over my head? Yeah, this is one of those places where it really applies.) Seriously, any suggestions for improvement on this fight would be appreciated.
> 
> By the way, does anyone else think that the Matt and Jack theme song should be "Coward of the County"? It just fits so well.

Matt managed to time it perfectly. He waited, listening to the man coming down the stairs, and then on to their door, Foggy's breathing going so shallow and slow he worried a little about her hypoventilating. He waited while Mr. Philanthropist set something on the floor—Foggy had called it!—and through the scratch of the key on the lock and the resultant thud of the bolt being released. Then he steadily opened the door and pressed the knob into Foggy's waiting hands. His opponent wasn't even facing the door, having started to turn to pick up whatever he'd left on the floor. Matt threw his first set of punches—a jab to the arm, which made Mr. Philanthropist loosen his grip on whatever he was holding (stun baton, he thought), and one to the neck—and the unmistakeable sensation of skin covering muscle and bone against his fists brought a perverse relief even as his enemy, at last aware of him, started retaliating. Finally, he was going to get to _fight_ , in a way that even his father might have approved.

A quick couple of haymakers told Matt everything he needed to know about Mr. Philanthropist. As Matt had suspected, he had some heft to him, but he didn't seem to have the slightest clue how to actually use it. He didn't try to employ the stun baton properly, reducing it to a stick to hit with, although Matt made sure to stay close so he couldn't get much leverage for that. Matt received a glancing blow to the eye that would probably turn into a terrific shiner later on, but it was a lucky hit from a guy who telegraphed his moves like Matt hadn't done since he was six. Mostly, Mr. Philanthropy backed up like crazy and hit ineffective targets without much strength, and Matt was able to let his body do what it had been trained to do, without requiring much input from his brain. About the only thing Mr. Philanthropy had going for him was that he had quite the chin. Matt had heard the crunch of the cartilage of his nose and knew he'd hit him a solid blow to the eye socket at least twice, which was extremely satisfying, but neither those nor the hits to his rib were bringing him down.

Meanwhile, Matt was worried that Mr. Philanthropist was going to start shouting any second and call down reinforcements from upstairs. Matt countered another wild hook and loosed another combination on the guy, just as his opponent somehow found the wherewithal to adjust his grip on the stun baton and focus on trying to get far enough away to use it properly. Matt didn't allow either the noises behind him (what was Foggy doing? She was leaving her corner—no, Foggy, stay out of this) or his opponent's sudden slight competency to distract him, but focused on getting this guy down once and for all. Time to quit playing around and end this thing.

A proposition that became much easier when Mr. Philanthropy's hands flew up to guard his head, stun baton apparently forgotten. Matt took advantage of his sudden preoccupation by finally (at last!) getting him down and into a choke. Only then did he allow himself to realize that Foggy must have done something. But what? She was still back by the door, so at least she hadn't come near enough to get hurt.

“Is he down?” she asked, moving toward them. 

“Yeah,” he replied, grabbing the stun baton and checking the unconscious body to see if he could find anything else of use. Foggy had acquired a new sound, metal clinking softly as she moved, and as he patted down Mr. Philanthropist's thick nylon jacket he identified it as coming from her hand. At a guess, she'd taken the key from the deadbolt lock and was clutching it in her fist to add power to her punch. At least she was trying to protect herself a little, he thought. “Why did you come out? You should have stayed there.” Did she even know how to make a fist properly? Did she know how to throw a punch? Probably not, if her sources of knowledge on self-defense were PSAs and whatever “safety lectures” she had been referring to earlier.

“Yeah, no, I was starting to get claustrophobic,” she said, “I couldn't see anything from there, despite the flashlight. I thought it would be so wonderful to finally see, and it was, but still all I could focus on was my hearing, and that was—you warned me, but I didn't really believe you.” Her already elevated heartbeat was speeding up more just remembering it; Matt didn't want to know how fast it had been going at the time. “It didn't help when I realized you'd probably be beating this guy faster if the light hadn't been there at all. One of those 'Be careful what you wish for' moments, I guess.” 

She carefully set something down with her left hand—oh, the flashlight, of course she would have grabbed that. In fact, Matt belatedly realized, she must have aimed it square into Mr. Philanthropist's eyes. That helped explain the ending to that fight. All of a sudden, his anger at Foggy deflated; she had managed to find a way to substantially help in the fight without getting near enough to get hurt. “It seems like you made the light work for us, though. Thank you, Foggy, that was actually good thinking.”

“Any time you need someone to stand at the back and shine light into the bad guy's eyes, I'll be your sidekick,” Foggy promised, as she joined him where he had made a pile of treasure from Mr. Philanthropist's jacket pockets. Two tie downs, complete with ratchets; scarf; gloves; cell phone; car keys. “And let me tell you, seeing you in the light has in no way changed my mind about you being the hero of this film. No wonder everything else has been so low-budget; they threw the wad on you. And to think, you do all your own stunts, too. Wow.” She started unzipping the jacket (checking for inside pockets?) while Matt failed to think up a response to her flattery, having been caught completely flat-footed. He quickly reapplied the choke, for the third time. If he wasn't careful, this guy was going to get brain damage, or have a heart attack, or something. They really needed to get him restrained, and to get moving.

Fortunately, Foggy didn't seem to notice either his lack of reply or what he was doing to the body, too busy with—was she taking the jacket off of him? “I think this guy doesn't deserve a coat, and if you have to do any more fighting like that, Mr. Action Hero, you'll need something to protect your hands, as well. Not that you weren't rocking the bare-knuckle thing, but some of those knuckles are bleeding, Matt.”

“So you're planning on, what, stripping this moron? Foggy, we don't have the time, we need to work on getting out of here before more people show up or we cause this guy permanent damage.”

“It's no more than he was planning on doing to me!” she pointed out, angrily. “For pure poetic justice, we should throw him back in that room and deadbolt the door. Except that they might actually throw him to the dogs, if we leave him there that defenseless, I don't know.” Matt had to admit she had a point. Several points, actually. Even as he nodded silent acknowledgement, she removed shoes and socks. “It will probably confuse the issue more if we just leave him, right? As long as we get away first?”

And now she was giving Matt the jacket. He tried to refuse it, but she said, “Seriously, Matt, you gave me your very awesome flannel shirt, and I know you've been freezing. Take the socks and shoes, too—your feet don't look too great, either.” He did want to escape without any complications, and leaving a blood trail by further abusing the feet that had already been damaged clearing out the old coal chute hole wouldn't help anyone; Foggy had another good point. He settled for using one of the tie downs to both gag the man who was dazedly blinking, and to bind him; it wasn't terribly secure, but it should hold long enough for them to get away. Meanwhile, Foggy had taken the flashlight and relocked the deadbolt to hopefully confuse matters further.

“You take the scarf and gloves,” he told Foggy, putting on the socks. 

“Wait, but don't you want the gloves for your hands?”

“No, I'll probably have use for my fingers before I need to punch someone again, Foggy. And they don't really offer the right kind of support for punching, anyhow. Just hurry.” She did, putting the flashlight down once again and grabbing what she needed from the pile he had made.

Matt forced himself to put aside shoes much too large for either of them, and reluctantly shrugged on the jacket. He started replacing most of the things he had removed from the pockets, not stopping to stuff the other tie-down all the way in from where it spilled itself down his side. “Which one of us should take this?” he asked, lifting up the stun baton. “I've got to admit, I'd be much more comfortable if you had it.”

“But then I'd have both the stun stick thing and the flashlight, which is a weapon in and of itself, by the way, Matt. It's a pretty substantial flashlight, like, like, a Maglite? And you've got nothing. That's not at all fair.”

“And which one of us has actual training in fighting, Foggy?” he asked. “Though I may take that flashlight once you don't need it to see.” If it really was that substantial, then it was just the type of weapon he best knew how to use.

Without warning, Foggy suddenly walked over to the bound body and pressed the end of the stun baton to Mr. Philanthropist's bare arm, apparently testing the controls until it activated. Then, while he twitched, she giggled. Matt was honestly a little worried about that reaction, despite how justified he thought she was in exercising a little power, until she said, walking back to him, “I just realized, the only thing funnier than the fact that the blind guy is planning on using the flashlight is the fact that, that you've got a rope, and I've got a light and a stick. And now he has the shivers! Come on, let's go up the spooky old stair.”

Matt had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are certain words and phrases I am so sick of writing. Stun baton, Mr. Philanthropist, accommodation (although that's from the other long story I posted this week). If you have gotten sick of reading them, I'm sorry. I did try for synonyms (although I refuse to use "electric shock prod," on the grounds that it is _worse_ ), but often they would have just been even more distracting.
> 
> Also, you may have noticed that I changed the rating on my story. I really was planning on going a little more graphic with my violence, and I still may in future chapters, but the [latest chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4300092/chapters/9868919) of "The Devil's Work" by [Beguile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/edgetheow/pseuds/Beguile) strikes me as way worse than anything I could ever hope to write, and it's only rated T. I guess I just don't have the chops for a true M story. Sorry, peeps!
> 
> I think I've gotten addicted to reviews. Oddly enough, I don't think going cold turkey will help. (But then again, what addict does?) If you want to feed my habit, you know the box to fill! I will admit, it's easier to write more when I'm on a comment high.


	9. Bafflement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy have a pit stop, in which they try to figure out what to do next.
> 
> If you think this describes half this story already, you may in fact have a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so Foggy's reference at the end of last chapter (and the beginning of this one) was to that timeless classic nobody's heard of, [_The Berenstain Bears and the Spooky Old Tree_](http://www.amazon.com/Berenstain-Bears-Spooky-Old-Tree/dp/0394839102).
> 
> So, time for the disclaimers. I have never: watched a live boxing match, choked anyone out, heard a live boxing match, been to Jersey City, had a smoking habit, or called 911, although I'm sure the vast majority of dispatchers are very lovely people.

“Well, Matt?” Foggy asked as Matt waited for her to start up the staircase. “Aren't you ready to get away from Great Sleeping Bear?” Apparently she was expecting him to take point. Matt wondered whether she had forgotten that he was down a sense on her, now. “Oh, wait, I guess the person with the weapon should go first, right?” she said, moving to do so.

Matt realized that he would rather be between her and any possible danger. He quickly caught Foggy lightly by the shoulder, said, “No, no, I've got it,” and kept his ears open for movement as he started to ascend the stair. Anyone who saw them was automatically a threat, and he was determined that Foggy wouldn't have to face any more of those.

They reached the top without incident, and, to Matt's best knowledge, unseen. The stairwell let out into the corner of the building, the walls around it the only ones that remained solid, leaving the majority of the large building open as one large room. All of the people that had been working on setting up the pit and the viewing area for the dog fights were gone, although Matt took a second to double check that there were no napping bodies or early arrivals he might have missed. He wasn't too concerned about their visibility from outside, since he was betting on any windows having been blacked out by their... hosts. 

Meanwhile, Foggy moved quickly toward one of the boxes that ringed the perimeter of the room, near a space heater that was operating at its highest capacity. “Aha!” she exclaimed. “Water!”

“Quiet!” Matt cautioned, even as he joined her. She pushed a bottle of water into his hand, then opened one of her own, quickly gulping down what sounded about half its contents. Evian, from what Matt could tell.

Matt heard Mr. Philanthropist finally moving to free himself downstairs. They needed to figure out what to do next. “All right, I've got a cell phone and car keys,” he said, pulling them out of his pocket and laying them across the ersatz table made by the box of water bottles next to them. Fortunately, the troublesome tie-down stayed in his pocket, although Mr. Philanthropist's nicotine patches did get knocked to the floor by the motion. “Should we try calling the police first, or make a break for it?” he asked.

Reminded, Foggy said, “Oh, yeah, and you can have that flashlight now.” She picked it up from the floor where she had dropped it and handed it over, then took another couple gulps from her water bottle while he slipped the flashlight into his jacket pocket. “By the way, that jacket is traffic-cone orange, and my shirt is really thick stripes of magenta and bright yellow plaid. We're not exactly in covert colors, here.” Well. Now he had an answer to that color question he had never quite gotten around to asking about his shirt. Speaking of which...

“ _Your_ shirt?” Matt asked.

“Yes, _my_ shirt. You think Sir Walter Raleigh ever got that coat back? Nuh-uh, mister, if you're going to come over all chivalrous, you're going to lose pieces of clothing.”

“Somehow, that sounds like the opposite of chivalry,” Matt objected.

“Oh, no, only when it's the girl losing clothing. When it's the guy losing clothing, it's all good. Haven't you ever seen the cover of a romance novel?”

There was a short silence. Then Matt started laughing despite himself, and Foggy said, “Wow, of all the advantages to losing your sight as a kid, I didn't even think to include never having to look at crappy book covers.”

“You're the one that's obsessed with them," Matt pointed out. "So why don't you try calling the police, while I figure out a way out of here undetected? The police will probably want to know where we are, and you won't be able to tell them much. We'll just have to hope they can track us by the phone. Hurry, I don't know how long Mr. Philanthropist down there is going to stay down. We need to get out of here before he follows us up.”

“Mr. What?” asked Foggy, but didn't wait for an answer, picking up the phone and carefully hitting four buttons on it. Matt could tell her fingers were trembling, though whether from adrenaline, reaction, or exhaustion he wasn't sure. He started checking on the area around them. The traffic on the road outside had picked up; rush hour, Matt presumed. Most of the men that remained were eating their suppers near the dog pens, as far as Matt could tell, drawn there as much by the lure of information that would inform their later betting as by the fire pits that were keeping the animals in working condition.

“Hudson County 911. Do you have an emergency?” came a tinny voice.

“Yes, we have an emergency,” Foggy snapped. “We have a plethora of emergencies. We've been kidnapped, and someone was going to rape me, and they are about to hold dog fights after feeding _us_ to the dogs, and to top it all off, it sounds like we're in _Jersey_!” Matt was pleased that Foggy managed to communicate all that without resorting to shouting.

“I know it seems like a great idea when you're drunk,” returned the frazzled voice of the dispatcher, “but you should know better than to tie up the emergency lines with your prank call. If that whole 'dog fight' shtick hadn't tipped me off, the way you ended by busting on New Jersey would be a dead giveaway. Find something better to do with your holidays, kid.” And the phone disconnected.

“Wow,” Foggy said. “Just, wow. She didn't believe me. Are they allowed to not believe you? Can't we sue for that, or something?”

“Somebody got to her first,” Matt said. “Somebody she finds credible. That's why she thought a call about a dog fight would be a prank. Her supervisor or somebody else with access to the phone logs may be in on this thing. We should probably ditch the phone.”

“I don't want to believe that,” Foggy said, “I don't want to believe that whoever's doing this has enough clout to not only block us off from help but track us by the phone. Can I just make one more phone call?" she asked, digging at her pocket. "I'm just going to make one more phone call, just in case. Good thing I got his digits, I don't have anybody's number memorized.” She pressed ten buttons on the cheap phone, and took a deep breath.

“Brett Mahoney,” came the reply, and Foggy started talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that my posting schedule is slowing down so much, but I really have to get a better idea of where this story is going for some of these parts.
> 
> (And I'm going to have write dialogue from another canon character, which is so intimidating. Meanwhile, I recommend everybody go check out [I Am Not Your Jim Gordon](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4385534) for a really good Brett-POV fic. Or don't, so that you won't have so much room to complain when you have to suffer through my attempts at depicting Brett.)


	10. Brett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt searches for provisions, while Brett plans on searching for Foggy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've passed 80 comments (although I do reply to comments. Am I spamming that part?), 100 kudos, 2,000 hits, and 15,000 words! Not bad for the Little Story that Could.
> 
> I hope this chapter lives up to expectations. I actually wrote the majority of the Brett/Foggy conversation before the rest of it, and I'm not sure how it turned out. 
> 
> I've got a whole ton of authorial pondering in the end notes, which is actually cut down from even longer authorial pondering. Feel free to skip. Just remember, I love your comments, even if I do spam the comment count, and I love them even more when you tell me how to make my story better!

“Hi, Brett. This is Foggy.”

“Foggy! Where are you? Mom's gossip group disguised as a prayer chain is saying you've disappeared, girl. You better have a good story.”

As Matt listened to the conversation, he started circling the room, trying to find anything that would help them get out of there. Foggy had had the right idea, grabbing water while she could, but there was plenty more they'd need, even assuming everything went well and they made a successful break for Mr. Philanthropist's car. For one thing, the sun had set a while ago, and while having that much less light didn't affect Matt's ability to navigate, it might slow Foggy down. Worse, Matt's feet were already cold through his socks, despite the fact that they were in a sheltered area with a heat source, and he dreaded to think of how Foggy's would feel once the night really started getting going.

“Funny you should say that. I don't actually know where I am. The 911 operator who didn't believe me said Hudson County, so, I guess, New Jersey? Somewhere, like, commercial or industrial, or whatever you'd call a big spooky empty building with a giant electrified cage in the middle of it."

As Matt went, he carefully dodged the cords that hung from the ceiling, attached to the lamps that were hanging over the area, ready to illuminate the action for the pleasure of the viewers. They all seemed heavy-duty, and he was just wondering what they were intended for when he caught an unmistakeable saccharine whiff from one of the thick cords near him. Ah. Cotton candy. These were probably purchased from a circus, then. That made sense.

“So, true story, I was kidnapped from Josie's, and locked in the basement here, and the people here seem to be setting up dog fights, and I think they were planning on feeding us to the dogs first, and we only got out because someone showed up early and alone and we overpowered him. Matt thinks he was planning on raping me.”

Matt turned in Foggy's direction, shaking his head “no” and making frantic motions with his arms, hoping she would catch his message not to go into detail on _why_ he would think that, how he'd gathered his evidence. That was none of this Mahoney's business. Too bad he was too far away from her by now to add verbal cues to that; he couldn't be sure she was actually looking his direction, but he also didn't want to start yelling when he could currently hear someone throwing the remains of his supper into a large garbage can twenty feet from the building they were in.

“Oh, yeah, you remember Matt Murdock? From Hell's Kitchen? No? Well, he was kidnapped, too, and anyhow, we're trying to get out,” Apparently she had caught his message by semaphore. Matt sighed in relief and continued on his course around the room. “but like I said, the 911 lady thought I was prank calling, or something, so if you never hear from me again, now you'll know why. I only called you because I stole this phone from the rapist wannabe and I still have your number on me from last night.”

Speaking of whom, although Mr. Philanthropist had gotten his mouth free, his swearing at the way the twisted tie-down jammed the ratchet encouraged Matt that it would take a while still for him to free himself entirely.

Meanwhile, Matt hit paydirt: a fully stocked medical kit was in the latest box he'd broached. After the completely useless contents of some of the other boxes, it was a wonderful surprise. Matt quickly shucked off Mr. Philanthropist's socks and started wrapping his feet with gauze and bandages, the motions familiar from long years of doing similarly for his hands. It was even easier to do his feet, actually, since he could use both hands for the job.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Foggy. I did not want to know any of that, actually. I just spent an hour telling your mother that you were probably just sleeping off last night somewhere, and let me tell you, that is not an experience I ever want to repeat. Let alone follow up by telling her that, actually, my bad, her daughter was eaten by dogs.”

Speaking of which, he quickly wrapped his hands as well. Just to make Foggy happy. Plus, that way she wouldn't try to push the gloves on him again, when she would clearly need them outside. He grabbed a roll of gauze and one of bandages, and shoved a roll into each of the inner pockets of his coat, the gauze roll rubbing up against the string of condoms that was already there.

“Could you give me some more to work with, here? Otherwise, I'm just going to start a phone tree of my own, then borrow a car and brave the Lincoln Tunnel and drive around every industrial area I can find. I might get to you by next week sometime, particularly as it's rush hour out here, Foggy. And the beginning of the last shopping weekend before Christmas.”

Matt acknowledged the justice of this complaint as he headed back around the other direction to Foggy, socks in hand. He stopped a moment, caught by a whiff of something from a nearby box, a scent strong enough to work its way past the smells of cigarette smoke and sweat that permeated the heavy jacket he was wearing. Or maybe he was just growing accustomed to them.

“I was more hoping you could do something through your job, Brett.”

“I'm not sure what you think I could do, Foggy. You're not in our jurisdiction, or even in the same state, and at the moment, I'm more concerned about your safety than whatever pissing contest I could start off with this. You tried 911, which was the right thing to do, even though it didn't work. Let's make sure you're alive to complain about it, right? Now, can you find me any clues about where you are?”

So Brett was in some kind of law enforcement? Or maybe the justice system? 

Matt shook his head and finished opening the cardboard box that had caught his attention, making sure to steady it on the small pile it topped as he did so. Sure enough, the box was full of packages of chicken jerky, presumably intended to reward the dogs who did well. Matt couldn't smell any obnoxious additives to it, so he grabbed a few packages. These he put in his pants pockets, since the jacket pockets were full and the jerky packages were fairly small, compared to everything else he was carrying. He grabbed some more to give to Foggy. _She hasn't eaten in far too long_ , thought Matt, _and we don't want her crashing. She has to keep her strength up_.

“Not really, and I don't know how much longer we've got, here, Brett. We don't know how high this thing goes, but Matt worries that that 911 call might bring trouble down on us, particularly if they can track this phone. We're going to have to leave it behind.”

“Girl, if they can track that phone, can't you track that phone? If it's got a GPS, you should be able to figure out where you are.”

Matt stopped in his tracks. Wow. No wonder Foggy had called Brett. He would never have thought of that, and at the same time, he couldn't believe he'd missed it. He decided to like Brett, despite the fact that he'd gotten Foggy drunk and then neglected to take proper care of her.

“Wow, you're so right. I think I'm going to have to hang up to try, though, and I kind of don't want to. Wait, are those for me?” Matt was taken aback by her sudden change of conversation, until he realized that she must be addressing him. “You give the sweetest Christmas gifts, Matt. I'll just ignore both the fact that the package informs me that these are the best organic treats for small dogs, and the fact that these socks have now been worn by two men and smell like it, and take them in the spirit they are meant. Gimme!”

Brett made a noise of protest over the phone, which Foggy then traded to Matt for the socks. “I just realized, I've been hogging Brett all this time. He knows who to talk to on my behalf, but feel free to pass on any messages on your own. I'll put these on.” She grabbed the jerky packages from his other hand, and Matt was left holding the phone in faint bewilderment. He slowly raised it up to his ear.

“Hello?” he said. He wasn't sure why Brett would want to talk to him, but Matt'd decided to like him, so he didn't object to it on principle.

“Hey, man. How's it going? Your name's Matt, right? Matt Murlock?”

“Murdock,” Matt corrected. “Yeah, um... I don't know what I'm supposed to say.”

“Who's going to be worried about you, Mr. Murdock? Give me their names and I'll try to track them down.” Now that Matt was holding the phone himself, he could hear the intermittent sounds of traffic in the background. An artificial bell chime sounded, and Matt suddenly knew exactly which store Brett was passing. A wave of homesickness for Hell's Kitchen such as he hadn't had since his freshman year swept Matt, until he shook his head and belatedly replied to Brett's question.

“No, I finished all my work for the semester, and my roommate packed all his Christmas break stuff and left Tuesday evening,” Matt informed the man. “He was going to do the whole 'camp in a hotel room for exam week because the campus is too busy and distracting' thing. I don't think anybody would m-miss me until I failed to show up next semester.”

“Okay, so you're a student, Matt. What about your holiday plans? Do you have any family or friends that will be looking for you?”

Matt didn't know what to say to that. Fortunately, Foggy had the best timing, and took over before he had to answer that; she grabbed the phone from his hand, and spoke to Brett around the piece of jerky she'd pushed into her cheek. 

“Yeah, Matt's a senior at NYU. I'm going to try to look up this place on the GPS, and I don't think I can stay connected while I do that. I hope I'll talk to you again soon!” She took the phone away from her ear and started hitting buttons. “I hope this jerk doesn't have a data plan, and they charge him, like, an arm and a leg for this. Hmm. Come on, connect, connect, connect! Oh. Wow. We are in the Bartholdi Industrial Park in Jersey City, New Jersey. Jersey City? Why Jersey City? The only thing they've ever had going for them was the Jersey City Giants! And even they left for greener pastures decades ago!”

“And now us,” Matt pointed out. Foggy sounded like she was on the verge of screaming. “Now Jersey City has us. If we want that to change, we have to get out of here _soon_ , Foggy.”

“But then I'll have to hang up on Brett again, and I didn't like doing that the first time.” Suddenly, Matt decided to unlike Brett again. Didn't Foggy care about her own life more than hurting his feelings? “Wait, I can text him. Quicker, faster, and hopefully there's no texting plan on this phone, either. Ack, I hate hitting the wrong buttons. There. Done. Goodbye, phone.”

And they finally were ready to leave. Matt thanked whatever saint had been watching out for them that nobody had entered the building while they were in there. Foggy turned the phone off and slipped it into the side of the water bottle box, grabbed another bottle, and picked up the stun baton again. Matt made sure he had a good hold on the flashlight, and double checked that all of the contents of his pockets were secure, and then grabbed Foggy's elbow with his other hand, ready to lead the way out at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. I really have nothing against Jersey City. I just still find snobbery funny. (I feel like I owe an apology to Kamala Khan. Not to mention all the rest of the people who live in, work in, come from, or just plain love Jersey City.)
> 
> I finally got timeline stuff nailed down, thanks in part to this very helpful thread, which puts this fic in December 2009, where I was mentally setting it, anyhow. Then I ended up on NYU's actual student calendar, which was pretty grim in December 2009. Exams were scheduled right up until December 23rd, which was a Wednesday. And since Matt went for end-of-exams celebratory drinking on a Wednesday, if it were the 23rd, this fic would take place on actual Christmas, which is just ridiculous. So Matt took his exams (for both the classes that had exams, rather than final papers or projects) on Reading Day, December 16th, 2009. To be fair, that was half the disability office being lazy (stupid MCU NYU CSD!--no reflection on the actual Henry and Lucy Moses Center for Students with Disabilities is meant by the author) and half Matt being, well, Matt. (It has absolutely nothing to do with author desperation. No, sirree. Move along, nothing to see here.) Which would make this fic take place on December 18, 2009. (Foggy had an exam on the 15th, two on the 16th, and her final on the 17th, in case you were wondering. Some of her fellow Empire State students had exams on the 18th, as well, but she lucked out.)
> 
> And all this was me trying to figure out if there were any snow to worry about in this story. Nope, not a speck, according to the historical weather database, but it never got above freezing. (And I went back and changed a couple of things in the last chapter to reflect the reality of the weather, because I realize I completely forgot to, despite knowing that this is set in December in northern New Jersey.)
> 
> For a good snooze, I could tell you all about what time it's been throughout the story, too. But none of you really care. For right now, it's about 5:30 p.m. Chuck is expecting his key back by 6; the “opening ceremonies” are slated for 7. Sunset was at 4:31.
> 
> And now you know what goes on behind the scenes. So much work for so little payoff to the reader. Yup, that's what I've been up to this week.
> 
> (All right, and I've also simultaneously written four one shots--one of them very short--and the beginning of a fifth, all set in this continuity. Most of them are set after this story, but I could polish the one that's Brett POV that covers much of his life up until this story starts and post it. The last couple sentences take place after this story ends, but that one probably works just as well without them. If you are at all interested, please let me know, and suggest a series title, while you're at it. It can't be worse than the one I'm pondering--"Evisceration-verse" is about as desperate as it's possible to get.)


	11. Barricade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt, Foggy, and a cheap compact car. Or, in which Matt and Foggy don't get quite as far as everyone may have hoped. (That seems to be a recurring motif in this story.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry this chapter took a while to get out. Along with work picking up, I had a nice week-long vacation, with absolutely no internet. (That was part of what made it so nice!) Also, I think this chapter is kind of weak. I'm sorry. (Hey, for anyone still reading this, at least there aren't very long rambling end-notes about dates this time! Count your blessings.)
> 
> Also, no promises on when I'll get to posting the next chapter. I'm worried enough about this one. And I've had this weird crack-fic, the kind with absolutely no fact-checking allowed because it's that stupid, that's been taking up mental space lately. (Just when I'd got the sentinel fic out of there, too! Argh!)
> 
> Time for another round of "nevers"! I have never: rented a hotel room in order to study for finals, wrapped my hands for boxing or any other martial art, failed a driving test, borrowed someone's phone and texted on it in order to mess with their data plan, stolen a car, or eaten food intended for dogs (although I accidentally used cat tuna once).

“Where are we going?” Foggy whispered once they were clear of the building.

Matt pulled her along, not sure whether anyone was looking their direction, or exactly how much light would be available for any watchers. Also, neither of them were covered well enough for this weather, and he was eager to get to shelter as soon as possible. Fortunately, he knew exactly where their destination lay. Everywhere they'd have to traverse was concrete, which was not only easier for him to cross quickly, but wouldn't provide any especial challenge to their footwear.

“The man we left tied up downstairs? His car is parked over here, and I've got his keys.” Matt discovered that, even if hadn't traced Mr. Philanthropist by hearing when he'd retrieved some of his “supplies” from his car, he would easily be able to follow the scent trail that was left. Shouldn't his nose be used to the vile mixture of scents on his jacket by now?

Foggy didn't speak again during their trip to Mr. Philanthropist's car. When they reached it, she moved her water bottle into the crook of her other arm, accepted the keyring he unburied from his pockets, and unlocked the doors remotely, then collided with him as they both headed for the passenger seat. After a moment, Foggy shook her head and rounded the car to the driver's side, getting in quickly and closing the door behind her.

Matt wished he could think that this reluctance to speak was the result of thought, or caution, or patience, or frustration, or just plain exhaustion. Instead, he could tell that her silence was motivated by fear. Every signal her body gave, from the quickening of her breath to the jingling of her keys and the smell of adrenaline mixed with sweat, denoted panic. Unfortunately, Matt knew exactly why.

“Matt, there's a, a barricade going up the end of the street!” she whispered harshly, once she had set her water-bottle down in the cupholder between them. “With, like, official police-looking people manning it! What in the world is going on?” Yeah. Matt hadn't been sure, before they started, whether she'd be able to see that during their walk to the car. He was positive the other barricade was still hidden by its distance and the bend in the road. 

“Now I'm really, really glad that I left that jerk's cell phone behind. I thought it was a little paranoid, but now I'm wondering what's wrong with a little paranoia. Just...what. What..?” Foggy suddenly stopped and held her breath for a moment.

Matt reached out and grabbed her hand, a gesture that ended up being made much more uncomfortable by the keys she was still clutching. “Calm down, Foggy, calm down. We're almost out. We'll get there. All you have to do, now, is put these keys in the ignition, start us up, and drive.”

“Matt, I-I can't,” Foggy said.

“Yes, you can,” Matt said. “They won't be suspicious of people trying to _leave_ , not yet. They're expecting a few workers to still be straggling out, having decided what dogs they're bidding on tomorrow. Just don't do anything to make them suspicious, and we'll be out in no time.”

“No, I mean I really can't,” Foggy said. “I failed my road test both times. My mom said they didn't have the money for me to waste on more instruction, so I was going to save up for more driving classes on my own, but, well, we live in New York and I've never really needed it. I mean, it was kind of embarrassing to have to go to the DMV when my learner's expired anyhow, just to get a 'Hey! I can't drive!' card, but it's not like I'll ever have to drive, right? I live in _New York City_! There's always something available! Subway, bus, walking, even a cab if it's really desperate. It's not like I'll ever be k-kidnapped and surrounded and not able to rely on the police! My life is not a horror movie, or an action movie, all right? These things don't just happen to people, not really! Stupid Jersey!

“So no, Matt, I won't be able to 'fly casual,' here. I would just get us dead, because I'm the worst driver in the world when people _aren't_ likely to shoot us.”

“No, you aren't,” Matt said. “I assure you, I'm a worse driver than you are.” He patted the shoulder his hand had moved to when Foggy had started accompanying her speech with gestures. She had expressed a preference for physical contact when stressed, and now that his hands were no longer full, he would do his best to accommodate that. “And I won't make you try to sneak out if you don't think you can do it, but do you think you can get us farther away from this place? Mr. Philanthropist back there is just about free, and he knows where his car is parked. Find another parking spot, preferably one that's somewhat hidden, and we can work on sneaking out another way. Walking still works as transportation, after all, even in New Jersey.”

Foggy slowly nodded, and added a verbal “Yeah. I think I can do that. I'll keep the headlights off, go slow—that way, even if I do hit a few cars on the way out, we shouldn't be too noisy. And it's not like this is a well-lit lot. Like you said, they're not paying much attention to what's going on behind them, and it's not like they're _that_ close. Okay, I can do this.” Matt removed his hand from Foggy's right shoulder as she shakily put the key into the ignition, turned it, and grabbed for the gear selector. Even through the noise of the motor starting, Matt easily caught her muttering to herself. “Oh, right,” she said, “not a manual, Foggy. Automatic. You can do automatic. It's really hard to stall. And it only goes straight down. Reverse is... two down?” She tried it. “Yeah, no.” Eventually, Foggy found reverse, Matt having long since switched his focus to the area around them as a method of self-preservation, even as his hands had found viable holds for much the same reason. Fortunately, neither the car's engine rumbling nor that short moment they had found themselves in drive seemed to attract much attention, although the fact that Mr. Philanthropist was mounting the stairs in the building worried Matt.

Despite Foggy's poor attempt at driving (“Hey, look, I did find the parking brake!” she said at one point, when they had been sitting motionless for no reason he could detect. “Too bad it wasn't on in the first place.”), Matt didn't hear any voices calling attention to the car that erratically left the parking lot and turned in the opposite direction from the barricade. (“Good thing I don't have to signal. I'd probably just turn the wipers on.”) She made another turn after what felt like a lifetime, due to the slowness of the car, although the sound of a door shortly afterwards informed Matt that Mr. Philanthropist was only just leaving the building. Soon enough, Foggy pulled the car in and put it into park, laying her head on the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” she told Matt. “I guess, whatever action movie we're in wasn't directed by John Woo. And I'm definitely not sweeping the Oscars for 'Best Actress in a Supporting Role,' here. I mean, what's the point of having a sighted sidekick when she can't even drive?”

“You did fine, Foggy,” Matt assured her.

“No, I didn't,” she objected. “We're going to get caught, or freeze to death, and it's all my fault. The whole time I was driving, I kept thinking, 'We are in a car'”--that was said in an old-fashioned robotic voice, though Matt had no idea what it referred to--“and here I am, failing at being as good a sidekick as Mickey Smith. _Mickey_ beat me out, Matt. I mean, I wasn't aspiring to be K-9 or anything, but _Mickey_. That's how pathetic I am.”

“Is that a Doctor Who reference?” Matt asked, although he was fairly sure by now. That show was so popular it had been almost impossible not to hear it playing somewhere in the dorm for months at a time. And the radio shows were pretty cool, too. “You're better than Mickey Smith, Foggy. You're the best. You're, you're Rose.”

“Bleh,” said Foggy. “I'd rather be Sarah Jane Smith any day. Hard-hitting investigative journalist. She'd have figured out what was going on here by now. And what to do about it.”

“Do you really want to know?” Matt asked, turning a little so that Foggy could see his face, although he had no idea how much light was actually available to her. “This is as close to safe as we'll be for a while, I can tell you what I've learned.”

“Yeah,” Foggy said. “Just, give me the flashlight back, I'll see if there's a, a sweater available or something in this trashcan of a car.”

“I noticed the heater's still running,” Matt admitted as he fished the Maglite back up from the floor where he'd placed it. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Yeah, make sure your vent thingy is open,” she suggested, taking the flashlight from him.

Matt took a deep breath and a moment to warm his fingers at the registers, then started filling Foggy in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I want to make a movie poster for the movie that Foggy envisions herself in. She can't quite decide whether it's horror, or suspense, or action, but by now, the only possible title is _Jersey_. Which I guess makes it horror by default. (All right, I've been checking out the MediAvengers series, which is hilarious, and awesome, and I so love the cover to the [authorized biography of Tony Stark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/971913/chapters/2133478), particularly the textual art on the back. That's just a beautiful, evocative piece of graphic design. But the promo art for the two movies is wonderful, too.)
> 
> Coming up next: More exposition! How thrilling. It'll be suspend-your-disbelief time, as the author pours out cliché after cliché. You'll wished I'd fact-checked as extensively on this stuff as the date stuff by the time we're done, I'm telling you. Unfortunately, Marvel doesn't do much fact-checking, so I don't feel over-obligated. (Anybody else read the Discussion/Off-Topic board over on the kinkmeme and think, "Oh, Doris Urich obviously had Little Nell's Disease!"?)
> 
> Once again, I love seeing comments in my AO3 inbox! (I got a couple more on [A Touch that Never Hurts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4217550) this week, and it brought me out of my post-vacation slump. Thank you, readers!) Tell me how to improve this chapter, if you agree that it's weak. Tell me what actually works for you, if you don't. Tell me if you think Matt is out of character, or Foggy is becoming a Mary Sue (or completely useless). Commiserate about the death of Elisabeth Sladen. (I also actually like the character of Mickey Smith, although Foggy's reaction to Saint Rose is a blatant piece of self-insertion.) In any case, I'd love to hear from you!


	12. Breather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Once again, exposition proves to be booooring. (Which probably should be the actual chapter title here, if I'm honest.) Otherwise, not much happens this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that this took me so long to write. What's worse, I can't promise it won't happen again. In fact, I slacked off on stuff that really needs doing to write this. But the kind comments I continued to receive after weeks of giving nothing made me feel that this much-put-off chapter really, really needed writing and posting.
> 
> Also, shout-out to [Ahavaa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahavaa/pseuds/Ahavaa), whose very legitimate complaint chapters and chapters ago (okay, Chapter 9, so only three chapters ago) is finally getting addressed. Very sloppily. I'm probably opening up myself for lawsuits, is how poorly I'm handling this complaint. I hope Ahavaa can't afford Landman & Zack-level lawyers, and that the Nelson & Murdock ones are too busy with even nobler causes.

“I think... I think it's the Mafia,” Matt said. He immediately regretted this abruptness when Foggy hit her head jerking to face him in her surprise. He waited until she stopped her interjections of pain and sat down properly in her seat to start talking again, feeling foolish that he hadn't considered that possibility. “I mean, I think the dog fights are a Mafia operation. Apparently, it's an annual thing, that they move around from place to place to help keep it under wraps.

“And, I mean, nobody's outright said 'Mafia,' but I was chosen because I ruined the curve for somebody who's being groomed for a position where they can 'look the other way' in a few years, and there was clearly something up with that 911 operator. Plus, they keep dropping names like Gambino, Galdone, Manfredi, Vercetti, Andriacchi. I think Andriacchi can't make it, but they're pretty hopeful that somebody has managed to talk Manfredi into it this year.”

“The Mafia,” Foggy repeated, dubious. “Are you for real, Matt? I mean... Of course. Of course you're for real. And why should I expect any reality by now, anyhow? You're some kind of blind ninja, people were planning on feeding us to dogs, and the local police seem to be in on it somehow, judging by the glimpses of that road-block thingy that I caught. And, I mean, on top of that, we're in New Jersey. I should have _expected_ the Mafia from that last alone, it's honestly a little tacky and cliché, I'm embarrassed for them. But, seriously, Matt, what... Why? Why does the Mafia have a December dog fight?”

“How should I know?” Matt asked. “I guess it's some kind of bonding get-together between allied families, combined with power plays, because who knows how long their alliances will last? Maybe.”

“So, like every other rich-people event in December, then,” Foggy commented. “Dick measuring under the umbrella of celebrating the season of peace and light to all mankind.”

“Pretty much, from what I can tell,” Matt agreed. “Plus, celebrating the season provides a good cover for visiting a different city. I think a lot of attendees are splitting this with tourist Christmassy stuff in NYC with their families.”

“Wait, that makes perfect sense, actually. Christmas in New York: check out the tree at Rockefeller Center, get some ice skating in and catch the show at Radio City while you're there, and then cross the river to check out the dog fights! One of these things is not like the others, and I'm picking 'Eviscerations' for a thousand, Alex. As if the normal seasonal tourists weren't bad enough. So how does human sacrifice come into it?”

“I think it's part of the power plays. 'Look what we can get away with; look what we can do to our enemies or even those who just inconvenience us.'”

“Or make themselves easy targets,” Foggy muttered next to him. “Also, you forgot 'Look how lethal my attack dogs are,' for those who use them for security. Fits that whole dick-measuring thing.”

Matt really wished she would find another term for it. It was bad enough that his brain was spending time trying to remember what Robert De Niro looked like so he could imagine him taking a starring role in whatever movie Foggy insisted they were in; he really didn't need the mental pictures she was now providing him with. Even though she was absolutely right.

She had also renewed her awkward rummaging in the rear of the car. Matt did his best to not repeat his earlier mistake and hurt her again, staying quiet even when her hip ended up pressed against his shoulder while she vocalized little grunts that coordinated with her body jerking as she tugged on something from the back. Instead, he focused on what was going on back at the factory complex. By the time Foggy turned around and sat in her seat again, he barely noticed it, too caught up in monitoring the conversation he had caught. He startled when her flailing fist caught his cheekbone, then realized that she was pushing it through a sleeve.

“Dude, I scored a hoodie!” she crowed. “I figured, you got the jacket, so I'll get the hoodie, it's all fair.”

“You got _my shirt_ first,” Matt reminded her.

“Yeah, so it's my turn again,” Foggy agreed. “I sadly didn't find any shoes or other foot-coverings, though. Not that that was all that likely in the first place. We've got chip packages to spare, if you can think of a way to MacGyver them into shoes. Or even an actual spare. Isn't that a hippy thing? Making sandal treads out of old tires? Probably takes way more time than I'm willing to spend on it tonight, though.”

Matt grimaced at the joke, and informed Foggy, “The serious security is starting to show up. And I caught them discussing a fairly new 911 operator who's going to be reprimanded for hanging up on a hoax call instead of keeping the caller on the line so that she could be caught.”

“Ouch,” said Foggy. “I mean, it hurts to think that that call could have gone _worse_.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “It also means that they're looking for us. We've got to get going—this little hiding spot probably won't be very safe for much longer.”

“And it's only going to get colder out there, the longer we delay,” Foggy pointed out. She added a mournful “Goodbye, warmth,” as she finally turned the car off. They both made sure they had all the useful supplies they'd been able to scrounge, and then prepared to face a long, cold, cruel trek through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is a bad chapter. Just be thankful I couldn't figure out a way to incorporate "After all, Christmas is a time for Family," as I was planning on having Foggy say. (It's in my little notes with arrows outline, even. I just couldn't fit it in, in the end. And you thought I had taste! But hey, my _Sesame Street_ reference made the jump from outline to final product! And I even included a vulgarity. And repeated it. Though I did have Matt dislike it, for his own reasons.)
> 
> After I took a gap year in college, I remember worrying that I'd never get back to writing papers as well as I had before it. Those worries turned out to be for naught, but I'm feeling that way again. I realize that this chapter just isn't as good. Any advice on perking it up, faithful readers?
> 
> Also, I didn't do near as much research on the Mafia as I need to for this. The names given are a mixture of the real (from Wikipedia) and the fictional (also from Wikipedia, and the Marvel Wiki). I don't know what Mafia families have alliances in the real world, or how any of this works, and I don't want to, because it's all so depressing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! Comments that give me possible ideas are twitterpated love, like Ms. Cardenas has for Foggy. Comments that correct my grammar or my world facts are tough love, like Matt getting Foggy to leave Landman & Zack. Comments that only offer objections to my writing are more like Stick's treatment of Matt--you may know more, and there may be love there, but it sure feels a lot more like abuse.


End file.
